Becoming
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: A little backstory for Martin... and Victor


**Disclaimer**: I own neither _Without A Trace_, nor its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only; I make no money from this.

**Author's note**: This is kind of an imagining of a backstory for Martin… based on clues picked up from throughout the series… most especially _Kam Li_ and _Are You Now, Or Have You Ever Been…_ both from Season One (I love DVDs).

Thank you to my betas… especially kate98 who said this was more than just plausible. I certainly hope so.

_&_

"I hear you talking everywhere  
Words on the loudspeaker, hanging in the air  
Everywhere  
And I remember the words you told me too:  
This town's full of losers, trying to get a piece of you  
You really think that's true…

How long will it take, 'till you open up your eyes  
I've been gone for years, you never even realised…"  
-Blue Rodeo "How Long?"

**Becoming**

He listens to the screaming and the tears and wants to cry, but big-boys don't cry. He huddles in the corner of his closet, blanket pulled up over his head, waiting for it all to end. He hopes no one will find him here – he'll be in big trouble if they find him. He'll be in trouble for hiding, and in trouble because he is someone to yell at who won't yell back. Maybe whichever one comes looking will just be mad enough to do a quick search and not go opening doors within doors.

He wonders if other families are like this, or if somewhere there really are people who don't just smile in public and snarl when they're alone, families where things are what they look like. He thinks there might be and wonders why he couldn't have had one of them.

_&_

He's fourteen now and his plans are made. He won't do this anymore. Their mistake was having a smart child – smart children figure things out. But he also has a reputation as a good child, so no one will suspect a thing until it's too late.

It's too easy, really. He's saved up his lunch money and bought a bus ticket. Toledo, Ohio – the name caught his eye up on the schedule board. He's not going to go anywhere predictable, because they'll look there first. But in a land of more than two hundred million people, it's pretty easy to disappear if you don't stick with patterns. He's got a bag with a few clothes and some food – he's decided not to bring a lot of money, because money can be stolen and people look suspiciously at kids with money. He's well aware of what he's doing; he's heard the horror stories and decided that it can't be any worse than staying where he is. At least wherever he's going he stands a chance of survival. If he stays… even if he doesn't kill himself, he still won't survive. They'll turn him into their vision of what he should be, which has nothing to do with who he is.

He settles into his seat and closes his eyes. He should feel scared, but he doesn't. Instead, for the first time in his life, he feels calm and in control. Whatever decisions he makes from here on in are _his_ decisions. That should be scary, too. He's been told enough times that with decisions comes responsibility, and that responsibility is a huge thing. He's also been told too many times that he's not capable of making his own decisions and that _they_ know what's best for him. But they can't know that – they're _not_ him. They don't have his fears or his dreams. And they're not perfect either, or he wouldn't be on a bus to Toledo.

Sometimes he wishes they'd just be like everybody else and get a divorce, but they won't do that because the parents of a president are supposed to be together. And he's supposed to be president someday, a Republican Kennedy. Except he's not sure that he likes politics at all, let alone Republican politics.

He becomes aware of a muttering. People are upset. He opens his eyes to find the bus has been stopped and two men in suits have stepped aboard. Other people are wondering what's going on, but he knows.

One of the men steps up to him and picks up his bag. "Martin Fitzgerald?"

"Yeah." No sense fighting it, they already know he's who they're looking for.

"Could you come with us, please?"

"Like I've got a choice." He makes a decision and goes for the theatrical, lacing his hands behind his head like he's getting ready to be put in cuffs.

"Knock it off, kid." The one without the bag reaches over and grabs him by the elbow, pulling him along the aisleway. The other passengers watch in shocked amazement, wondering what these men in the dark suits could want with this skinny, acne-covered kid. He considers screaming that he's being kidnapped, but it wouldn't do any good. They'd just explain who they were and everybody would cooperate. Instead, he just files this away under 'lessons learned' and starts making some new plans.

_&_

Another year, another day. Another fight, but this time he's the one involved. Then the fateful words are spoken and he does exactly what he's told, exiting the house without even taking the time to stop for shoes. He's too mad to feel the stones of the driveway through his socks, or even register the difference when he turns onto icy asphalt. But by the three-quarter mile mark, his body begins to register what his mind cannot. His steps slow and become more halting as the cold and unfriendly surface begins to take its toll. He doesn't stop though, even as the tears begin to freeze to his face and his fingers lose their feeling. He just needs to get away. He doesn't care where to, as long as it's not here.

A car pulls alongside him and a lady leans out. "Are you okay, honey?"

He shakes his head. Okay is someone else's life, not his.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?"

He knows better than to get into a car with a stranger, it's been drilled into him since he was old enough to walk. _Don't go with strangers. Don't _talk_ to strangers._ But he's sick and tired of listening to the old man and all those rules. _Don't waste your time reading that kind of trash. Don't talk back._ There's so many rules it might as well be _Don't think_, because they don't really want him to. They want the perfect little automaton, not a mind autonomous.

"Yeah." He doesn't really care whether or not this person is a serial killer or something equally as predatory. He doesn't care whether or not he ends up in a ditch somewhere, never found. The old man could probably play on that tragedy; parlay it into something that would boost his career. He gets in and the hot air causes more pain as blood begins to return to those frozen, deprived surface areas. He whimpers a little as the hot needles imbed themselves in his skin – or at least that's what it feels like.

She looks at him up close and doesn't bother asking where he wants to go. Instead she takes him straight to emergency… he must look pretty bad. The nurses want to know secrets he's not going to tell, things like his name and who his parents are. He'd rather just live a new life, maybe get shipped off somewhere in The System. He's always thought of it that way – an entity of its own that absorbed children and made them disappear. He'd like to disappear. He'd like to just become a nobody. His parents always tried to make The System a threat, a bogeyman to inspire good behaviour. But it's become something else, something attractive. Somewhere without them, without _him_.

He knows it's no good, though. They'll find him eventually, but for now he just wants to pretend. Pretend everything will be okay, and that he can become someone else instead of having to be perfect. He's good at pretending; it's the one thing that marks him as a member of his family. He can smile when all he wants to do is scream. He can fake sincerity like the great manipulator they still want him to be. But it grates, it's sickening.

Some days he'd like to be like his father, and not feel anything he doesn't want to feel. To not flinch when someone yells, to not want to cry when he sees someone being hurt. Other days it's only about escape.

For now… for now, he takes solace in his anonymity. He's just a kid, half-frozen, his body now on par with his soul.

Finally, they come and there's the requisite tears and fussing, things he knows will stop once people stop looking. It's all about image and nothing about substance. The Bureau likes the image of loving families, of responsible, diligent and caring agents. And he is – the old man – he cares about that job so much that he might as well be living in his office. He knows more about his fellow agents than he does his own son. Martin wonders what it's going to be this time – loud lectures or even louder silence. It doesn't matter. No matter what they do now, he's tasted that freedom. He's going to get there.

_&_

He idles in the parking lot, watching the trucks. This time he's got a plan. No bus ticket means no records to trace. He's taken lots of precautions, in fact. Even his clothes are not Fitzgerald clothes – he abandoned those in a charity bin when he picked up these. Second, maybe third-hand castoffs… he's trying to look like the kid that nobody notices, that nobody _wants_ to notice.

He sees the one he wants – the latch is broken and it'll take nothing to throw the door up and climb in. _Try to find me there_. There won't even be a witness to say 'Yeah, I gave that kid a ride.'

He scrambles in and settles down behind some boxes. Somebody's moving stuff – hopefully they're heading out of state. Anywhere is better than here.

He hears a bang as the door slams tight – apparently the latch wasn't broken after all. Then a rumbling vibration as the engine starts and a slight lurch as the driver shifts gears. _Perfect._

After a while, though, it gets hot and hard to breathe. He thinks maybe he's going to die and maybe that will be a good thing. At least if he's dead they can't take him back. It's suffocation either way. At least this one'll be quicker. Minutes versus years. He closes his eyes.

He opens them to find himself in a hospital again. This time, though, he's not taking any chances. He's still wearing his clothes, so he simply gets off the bed and walks out the door. Nobody tries to stop him, they're too busy to spend too much time on some homeless kid. There was some kind of major accident from what he can tell; they can use the bed that he's no longer taking up.

He has to move fast, though. They've probably taken his fingerprints and are trying to identify them – Victor's important enough to have Martin on file. _Identification_. As if Martin would be lucky enough to have someone kidnap him.

He spends his first night on the streets and it's not as bad as the nightmare stories said it would be. It's easier and harder than anything he's ever done. He's not used to the cold or the smells or the people around him, but he's feeling something new. _Freedom_. For the first time in what seems like forever, he's not worried about tomorrow and what it might bring. From now on, he'll smile only when he wants to. He won't wear a tie and talk about nothing while old ladies coo about what a polite boy he is. He won't be a showpiece anymore.

"Catch me if you can." He whispers it, a rare, genuine smile teasing his lips. If the old man wants to find him, he'll have to figure out who his son is. You can't find a person if you don't know how they think.

He doesn't sleep, though – he's too excited, scared and cold to sleep. He's free… for the first time in his life, he's actually _free_. Bad things might happen, but they can't be any worse than what he's left behind. The things the old man refuses to see, because they don't happen in good families, which is what Victor seems to think he has. A 'good family' means a lot in the Bureau, no matter how much they insist you abandon the family for the Job. It's the image that counts. These are the Guardians of America and all it stands for. They must seem to be above reproach, to be shining superheroes with no flaws.

He must be driving the old man nuts, he realises. It's a catch-22. His father can't just let him disappear – that would be noticed by somebody and would be seen as a detrimental lack of care and attention – but every time Martin runs away, it's another black spot on the ol' record. Which leads to more screaming, because Martin is jeopardizing everything for the family.

What a joke that is. Family. A family is supposed to be more than a collection of people all housed in the same place and sharing DNA. Family is supposed to know more about each other than name and age. Sometimes he wonders if they even know _that_ much. Oh, sure, they know the _statistics_ of it… it would be _wrong_ not to have the numbers, but do they really _know_? It wouldn't seem so, or they'd know he doesn't like being a part of the debate club, that he'd rather take honours math than political science and language. Even his sister hasn't seemed to guess that. She's happy to play her part, to be the little socialite, with emphasis – Martin feels – on the _lite_. Words can't convey Martin's feelings on the subject. What does everybody think they accomplish, standing around sipping cocktails and commenting about the state of the world – a world they don't even live in? In one night he's learned more than they're capable of imagining about that world that they hold in such disdain and want to fix. He nearly laughs at the thought. _Fix_. That means something else out here, something the Mommies and Daddies of Society would rather their little boys and girls didn't know about, something those boys and girls know all too well.

Some kid – wide awake on something – wants to know Martin's life story. Clothes aren't enough to fool these experts, there are a million other clues they use to mark him as apart from their tribe – a newcomer to the ranks. His face is too clean, his hair too neat, he's not stoned or sick. For the first time ever, Martin tells the truth, safe in the knowledge that the kid won't remember tomorrow, or if he does, won't be believed. Kid is the right word, too: he's younger even than Martin's fifteen tender years. At the same time, he's so much older… ancient, even. He seems to understand the reasons, understand what's brought this good 'rich' kid into the life. He's got his own story and, blessedly, advice. Things Martin only vaguely considered, like food and shelter. Some of it's too specific to be useful; Martin's not planning to _stay_ here, after all. There might be some record at the hospital, so he needs to be somewhere else before the experts come looking. Some other city, some other world. Maybe then, the old man will realise that Martin is serious. Maybe then, he'll take some notice.

_&_

This time he's taking more stuff with him. This time, they can't stop him; instead, he has their blessing. If he could throw it in the garbage he would, but he can't, so he just tries to forget it's there.

"Good luck, son." Victor holds out his hand and dutifully, Martin shakes it. "You'll…"

"No." He won't call, he won't write and he won't come back.

"You going to say goodbye to your mother?" Victor sounds hopeful, as though this is just a normal family, and he can make it so just by believing.

"No." Martin's past the point of 'willing to pretend.' Victor looks crushed, but Martin feels no guilt. Victor chose his side a long time ago. He can't make up for that now.

"Martin…" Victor stops, seeing the look in his son's eyes. It's like he's finally figured things out, like he's finally discovered that demands for respect rarely produce it.

"Goodbye, Dad." There's a note of finality in the words. This may be a legal leaving, a move approved by both sides, but it is a leaving nonetheless.

"I…" But Martin turns away, not wanting to hear another lie. He gets into the car and turns the key, driving away and leaving the old man standing there with things left unsaid, orders left ungiven.

_&_

Victor gathers up his jacket and prepares to leave the conference room. "I'll tell your mother you're looking well." It's their code phrase now, uttered on the rare occasions they actually see each other. Martin knows his father won't listen to Martin's request, won't fully stay out of his life. It's so frustrating that _now_ Victor wants to protect his son, when he wouldn't do it before.

"Yeah, whatever." Martin waits until the door closes, until Victor is safely out of earshot and can't be further hurt, before he voices the words. '_You believe what you want to_.' Victor's words echo, as though Martin _can_ believe that any of this was for him. _You never cared before_. Nothing's changed; it's still all about the image. Can't have the deputy-director's son getting fired, no matter how many rules he breaks, no matter how many people he destroys.

Reflexively, he straightens. She doesn't need to be there for the body to react, to fall in line to escape the little pinches she used to emphasise her point. _Sit up straight, eat slowly, and don't play with your food. Don't talk back. Don't look at me like that. Be polite to Mrs. So-and-so… she's a very important person. Stop fussing with your tie, your hair, your jacket. Who were you talking to last night? Don't lie to me, young man._ And every time, a pinch or a slap… hard enough to hurt, but never hard enough to bruise, to mar the merchandise. The perfect son means a lot of rungs up on the social ladder. She wasn't the type to settle, to be Mrs. Special-Agent Fitzgerald. She _would_ be Mrs. Deputy-Director Fitzgerald, with her eyes fixed on that coveted Directorship. How she must hate him for shattering her dream of becoming First Mother.

_Tough_. He's enough of a realist though, to know that he's won a battle here, not the war. Victor's good at saying things he doesn't mean, at sacrificing a knight to free the queen later on down the line. But Martin's learned to take what he can get, when he can get it. He knows that some people never win the big things, only the little ones. That when you feed on scraps, you can't be picky. This will do.

_&_

He waits, knowing what the man at the desk thinks of him. He wonders what magical power that man possesses, and if he can steal some for himself.

"Am I supposed to thank you?" Jack sounds cynical, almost nasty. Impolitic for someone talking to the Deputy-Director, but Jack's never had a reputation for good politics. He's got something, though. It's clear in the way Martin's willing to fight to save him, in the way Martin's willing to stay _put_.

"He's a good kid." Victor wishes he could say more, but the sad truth is he doesn't really know his own son. He can't do what he was asked, though. He can't just walk away, he can't just go and leave the boy on his own. He's done enough of that over the years. He wishes he _could_ have gotten to know his son, but there always seemed to be something more important. A dinner here, a networking there, and somewhere in between, Martin slipped away. "Take care of him." He doubts Jack will understand. He'll probably see it as just another order. The truth is, Victor's giving his boy up, handing him over for adoption. Martin's happy here, happier than Victor remembers ever seeing him.

He turns and walks out quickly, before he can let the pain show, before he can take back what he just said. Maybe one day they'll be a family again. Maybe one day he'll figure out just what he did that was so wrong.

_&_

"Cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon  
Little Boy-Blue and the Man on the Moon,  
When you comin' home, son?  
I don't know when, but we'll get together then  
I know we'll have a good time then…"

– Harry Chapin "Cat's In The Cradle."


End file.
